Family Meeting
by Windsett
Summary: Ford has called them all together, and Stan can't believe his ears. He can't believe his brother's finally calling to him. Set at the start of The Last Mabelcorn.


**AN: Just a thought I had about how Stan could have reacted when Ford declared his family meeting at the start of The Last Mabelcorn. This was only meant to be a few lines, but quickly turned into over 1600 of them. Thank you for taking the time to read this and for any comments you may have!  
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' _Family meeting!'_

Stan jerks his head and staggers back, as if a doddery old woman he once cheated years ago has suddenly sprung out of nowhere to smack him around the face with her purse.

Something's just happened that's like a customer in this dumb town actually exercising their legal rights against him - possible, but unlikely.

Stan warns himself that he shouldn't get his hopes up, but this only lasts for a split second before all logic is destroyed and instinct roars victorious.

His heart has spasmed and is now thumping hard against his chest, like the first time he saw a cop car's lights flashing in his rear view mirror. His stomach is hot and hollow, and there's fizzing fire in his blood.

' _Family meeting!'_

There they are again, those words those unbelievable dangerous _wonderful_ words he can't quite believe he's hearing.

But they do exist, and they're shooting through the air like bullets, like missiles, sleek and perfect to deploy in his ears with breathtaking aim.

Ford is yelling these words from inside the house. Ford is yelling a collective out loud instead of picking and choosing names to call, he's...summoning them. He's summoning them all.

His brother is calling for _him_.

Time speeds up and Stan whisks his head around to quickly conclude his business. He snaps at the smuggler by his side to hurry, to go, to take the barrels of pugs across the border and get a move on right now. He shouldn't be rushing his business like this and knows he could be cheated later, but later doesn't seem to matter right about now.

' _Family meeting!'_

Stumbling over his footing, Stan dashes back inside the Shack. There's a roaring in his ears, and the sunlight's brighter than he can ever remember.

Which must be why he can't hear the rumble of the truck's engine or any gravel sprayed up by its tires, but it's just as likely that idiot Santiago hasn't even left.

Yes Stan's worried that the kids could see his crimes in action (that an outraged Dipper will call the FBI and his profit will be slashed as Mabel screeches and rescues as many pugs as she can carry), but what he's most concerned about is being late and missing it.

He doesn't want to miss the meeting or miss out or let Ford down again, he...he doesn't want to be forgotten again.

But- but at the same time Stan can't help but remember how arrogant and self-centered his brother is. It's a sideswipe of memory and experience, and its threatening to throw him off his stride.

It really is just typical of Ford to assume that he can summon people whenever he wants, as if _his_ thoughts are important enough to be the subject of a meeting. As if he's the head of the family, and all power and responsibility lay with him and everyone has to jump whenever he snaps his fingers.

' _Family meeting!'_

But...but Ford is yelling for _him_ , he's actually calling him and this might be the moment when things change and revert and those two words - those four syllables - carve through everything else in Stan's soul like a hot knife runs through butter.

Stan's just about to reach the door to the room where Ford is, but he knows he's got to calm down first. He can't just rush into the meeting as if he's desperate, as if he's dropped everything to obey his brother's summons, but it's been a long time since his skin has tingled and his chest has tightened in the good sort of way and he needs a moment.

Muscles quivering, Stan edges around the side of the doorway.

He leans flat against the wall to compose himself, to take another breath and hold himself straight, to look the part and fight down the pull of his lips before he turns around with a cool flourish to enter the room and he's almost there, he's just about ready, and hot Belgian waffles this it it this is it, when the kids suddenly _burst_ right past him without seeing him and _race_ into the room where Ford is.

'Ah children, come in come in!'

Ford's voice is bright and beaming, welcoming his guests in.

His brother's voice is warm and solid and content, as if everything is going according to plan and he'd never doubted otherwise. It's as if everyone's here on time and he's ready to begin and...and that's it. That's it. The meeting's started just like that, it's...

The meeting has started without him.

Another invisible slap to the face and Stan shoots out a hand to grip the doorway, his center of gravity shifting.

He can't see but he can hear, and in a way that's worse because now he has only his dark imagination to rely on.

There's important chattering about scrolls and bags and owls, and each word forms sharp and fractured in his mind.

Stan closes his eyes tightly and bites down on the inside of his lip. He bites down hard, and experiences nothing but numbness as his teeth sink into familiar scar tissue.

He then snaps his eyes open and strides away, shoulders back head held up high arms swinging like he's marching off to war. He doesn't make any effort to quieten his strides, but Mabel's excited squeeing and Dipper's voice and _Ford's_ voice override any sounds from the rotten floorboards he's abusing.

Stan bursts back outside, and wipes the back of his hand fiercely across his eyes. Stupid unnaturally bright sunlight, he's going to complain to someone about it first thing tomorrow.

He takes a breath and looks around and oh, typical, his useless smuggler is only now about ready to drive off!

With a welcome snarl Stan is ready to let rip at him - to yell at him or punch him or both, why not he deserves it useless _idiot_ he can't be trusted _no-one_ can be trusted, that's a line out of his stupid brother's precious journal he should know he's memorized every word, stupid words stupid journal he should have _burned_ them when he had the chance to, he should have burned everything he-

A sudden _crash_ like a gun shot as a metal dart explodes through the window and smacks straight into the truck right besides him.

'Ah it's the cops, gun it!'

Years of experience has Stan yelling this warning before he can think about it. The squeal of tires joins in with the truck's wailing alarm as Santiago _finally_ does what he's being paid to do, and the truck roars away down the path.

Stan watches the back of the truck bump and judder away. And it's only until the plumes of dust and smoke have cleared that he's aware of the pain in his left hand. It's warm and throbbing, beating out of sync with the other rhythms his body is subjecting him to.

Slowly turning over his hand to inspect the palm, he sees a tiny forest of wooden trees jutting out of it. They're dark and dead and bloody, and a thin river of blood is trickling down to his elbow.

He didn't know he'd been gripping the edge of the door-frame so hard.

He didn't know that the condition of the Shack was _that_ bad, so rotten and weak and unreliable that if you dared to lean on it - if you had the audacity to rely on something as designed - then it would betray you.

Stan examines the splinters jutting arrogantly out of his red raw palm. He swallows dryly. They're large enough to be pulled out now, and if Mabel hasn't used up the first aid supplies to decorate Waddles again then he can clean his hand and bandage it up.

And as if on queue Mabel bursts out of the front door, talking excitedly on her phone, a journal in one hand and a huge metal crossbow in the other.

Stan wants to rip the book from her hand and yell at her for playing with something so dangerous, but he's frozen in place.

He watches Mabel follow the path the truck just took, bouncing around and glowing as if Christmas has come early. She doesn't once look back, and Stan finally lets his injured hand drop to his side. Gravity pulls a wave of blood and pain right down to his fingertips, a crash of needles and glass and grit.

And just as he finally turns around - just as he's made the decision to pick up and start yet again - Stan sees a hand swivel the sign hanging from the Shack's window from Open to Closed.

Either Ford or Dipper.

Ford or Dipper making the decision to close up shop, a thoughtful prelude to some quality time together, as if Stan wasn't there, wasn't even a factor to be considered and _then_ ignored.

His brother or his nephew shutting him out, his niece running away, stranding him in the dirt.

His family putting him in his place.

The breeze is cool, the air is warm, the grass is green and the sun is burning like liquid silver in an aching blue sky.

Birds screech and animals run and leaves rustle and the world marches on as predicted. As expected.

Some things can't be changed and aren't ever meant to, no matter how many blood and sweat soaked decades are offered up for payment. Some things can't be bought or cheated or earned, no matter the currency. No matter the underlying intention. Stan knows that he's wasted too much time trying not to learn this and it _hurts_.

But...but what hurts more is that he doesn't think he ever will.

Stan sighs softly, closes his eyes gently, and clenches both fists hard.


End file.
